


So Close, Yet So Far

by susies_fandom_wonders



Series: Under the Mask [11]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Assault, Blood, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence, implied misogyny, swift's time in the cells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 17:11:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susies_fandom_wonders/pseuds/susies_fandom_wonders
Summary: Swift helped Olivia and Emmy escape Targent. He's found out.





	So Close, Yet So Far

Swift let out a strangled scream as Bronev slid the knife over his scar – it wasn’t really a scar anymore; really, it was an open cut now – again. His arms and legs strained against the shackles on the table, his head strapped down so he couldn’t move.

Blood covered a good portion of his face and trickled onto the table, getting into his hair and his neck, soaking into his already soiled uniform and leaving him a sticky, red mess.

“I’ll ask you again, Swift. Where did those sorry, good-for-nothing _women_ get to?” Swift grit his teeth, the pain causing even his jaw to ache.

“I-I don’t kn-kn –” Swift shrieked again when Bronev suddenly jabbed the knife into a shackled hand. He quickly dissolved into pained sobs, the world around him fading from the pain and the knowledge that if he _just passed out_ , Bronev might leave him alone.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t that lucky. Jerking the knife out of Swift’s hand, Bronev turned away before coming back with a damp rag. Swift realized what it was, even with darkened vision and muffled hearing. He jerked violently, barely managing a gasping _no_ when lemon juice was poured directly into the open cut on his face.

Swift couldn’t have answered Bronev if he wanted to after that, screaming and twitching too much to register the questions. The pain was _too much, too much_ –

“Answer me!” Bronev yelled, grabbing Swift’s face and turning his glazed eyes towards him. “Answer me, you _bastard_!” His lips were turned up into a snarl. “Where the _fuck_ did they go?!” Another stab, into the same wound on his hand. The man on the table only let out a weak, strangled cry at that, gasping and sobbing and _God he wanted this to end_ as Bronev twisted the blade in his hand for good measure.

Swift felt himself finally slipping, his breathing shallow and weak. Bronev released him. “No, no, _no_ , Agent Swift. You are not dying yet. Not while you still have _much, much_ more discipline ahead of you.” Bronev walked to the intercom on the wall, pushed the button. “Agent Owl, please come to cell 7A _now_.”

Swift felt lightheaded. He felt sick – he had thrown up everything he had eaten once the torture started. His body was going numb, cold. Swift accepted that.

He felt, rather than heard or saw, hands on him, gently smacking his cheeks. A needle was inserted into his arm – he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that that was an IV he was getting. While that was happening, clot sponges were placed onto his face, wiping away the blood and tears from Swift’s face.

“Swift, if you are awake, please stay with me.” His blurred, glazed vision finally came into focus. Agent Owl stood above him, face pinched tight with worry, fear, and barely concealed anger. She leaned down. “I can’t believe this happened to you. Boss needs to learn,” she whispered, before pulling back, bringing up a needle and thread. “I’m going to stitch your face. Is that okay?”

Swift grit his teeth, more tears slipping down his face. He remembered Emmy begging to be killed when he found her. He understood now. Swift worked his jaw, struggling to remember how to speak. Owl waited patiently.

“Owl, just kill me.” Swift’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. The old woman reeled back, as if she was struck. “Let me die.”

“No, no, Swift. You’ll be okay. I’ll keep you in the hospital wing. He can’t hurt you there.” Swift thought for a moment, sorting his scrambled thoughts.

“When I recover?” Owl’s face fell.

“I’ll try my best, okay? Now, let me stitch your face, and get you cleaned up.” Swift inhaled, then exhaled shakily.

“Alright.” Owl smiled weakly, then pulled the skin closed and began to stitch, looking at Swift for any signs that the pain was getting worse.

“Can you feel it?” Other than the gentle pressure of the thread going through his skin, he couldn’t feel a thing.

“No.” Owl sniffed then, wiping her eyes.

“I think I heard you screaming. I should have interfered, I’m sorry.” Swift blinked up at her as she tied off the last stitch, looking over her handiwork carefully. She went to work on his hand, next. Swift was just tired, now. That’s all he could focus on.

“‘M sorry, Owl, but I…. I’m tired.” Owl spared a glance at him before she looked back at his hand.

“I think you’ll be alright if you sleep. I managed to give you more blood and the major wound’s been stitched.” Swift, despite everything, managed a small smile, the movement pulling on his stitches.

“…Thank you, Owl.” Owl patted his arm reassuringly.

“My pleasure, Swift. Sleep, now. I’ll keep you safe.”

Swift drifted off just as he was being wheeled back to the hospital wing.

——

* * *

——

Swift’s body twitched and shuddered with spasms. His newly-opened scar-turned-cut was on fire, the stitching broken and pulled. The skin around it was inflamed, red and swollen.

The feedings were irregular, as if they wanted him to starve as much as humanly possible before giving him bowls of tainted stew with far too dry bread for his throat. When he didn’t eat in the small amount of time they left him to it, they – Swan or Sparrow; they were never in the same room together. Swift wouldn’t have been able to handle it if they were both in the room – would force it down until nothing was left.

His ribs were on fire from the kicks from steel-toed boots, his hips and legs bruised to the point where it hurt to move them. Sparrow was far worse than Swan – he would take him for all he had, and then some. He would force himself on Swift when he was drugged from the food, too out of it to fight back. There were probably a few broken or fractured bones from him alone; he was the main cause for the bruising and pain on his legs.

Swan, however… she was bad in her own way. She never forced herself on him, but she made up for that through her brutality, in the way she’d kick and hit him until he was broken and bloody on the floor. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

She had turned to electricity torture as of late. Swift hated that the most, the way his muscles and body would contract and spasm uncontrollably until he begged her to stop, when the blood vessels in his eyes felt like they were going to burst. Even then, she didn’t stop – she didn’t, not until he was almost unconscious from the unbearable pressure building up in his head. He would get bloody noses, the tiny blood vessels not able to handle the pressure, the electric currents – one of the vessels in his eyes had broken, dying a side of his vision red.

No matter what they did, it was messing with his opened scar that reduced him to a screaming, sobbing mess on the cold concrete. The centre of his face was burning – he probably had an infection, it hurt to move his face, to do any sort of emotion with it – and with the stitching pulled and loose, it wasn’t going to heal properly. At least, it wasn’t going to be the way it was before – that was for damn sure.

Owl and Raven had been dragged out when they had removed him from the hospital wing – she’d screamed at them, fought them for all she had, while he struggled slightly, begged for them to keep Swift in the hospital, but in the end, they couldn’t keep them from taking Swift the floor down to the holding cells for Targent’s ‘interrogations’ with the poor souls that found themselves in Bronev’s sights.

Swift missed Owl. He missed Raven. He wanted them to come in, to tell him that everything would be okay.

They never did. It was only ever Swan, Sparrow, or Bronev.

Bronev never really did anything – he had opened his cut, sure, but he normally came in to watch. Rarely did he intervene – and it wasn’t an intervention to make the pain stop. It was an intervention to take over, to hurt him while yelling at him, yelling questions and obscenities when he didn’t answer, pulling him up by his hair hard enough to tear the strands from his scalp, holding a knife to his throat and making him think his throat was going to be cut – little chips and nicks in his skin appeared; they were certainly going to leave scars. Being malnutritioned – and drugged, poisoned, whatever the hell they did to him – didn’t help much; the strands of greasy (and sometimes clumped and bloody) blond hair came out easily. Being fed that drugged food didn’t help much, either; Swift always threw it up, throat burning and vision blurring with the tears and effects of the drug that they slipped into whatever they fed him.

And that made him so much more vulnerable. Being drugged made him loopy, uncoordinated, and unable to fight back, stomach in too much pain to do anything.

* * *

Swift had managed to fall into a light doze before the door slammed open again – how long had he been out? Swift didn’t get up, in too much pain to move much. It wasn’t the slightly heeled boots of Swan’s, or the soft clicks of Bronev’s shoes.

It was Sparrow.

Before Swift had time to react, he had been pulled up by his hair. Sparrow sneered at him.

“Hello, love.” His tone was deep, dangerous – the statement wasn’t legitimate. The man looked over at the bowl of food, which was untouched. “Looks like you haven’t eaten yet.”

Swift winced as he willed himself to speak, working his jaw and trying to find a way to say what he wanted without disturbing the sores in his mouth. “Not hungry.” His voice was weak, horse, his throat scratchy from his screams.

“But you’re going to _starve_ if you don’t eat. Aren’t you at least a _little_ hungry?” Swift’s breathing hitched, his eyes meeting Sparrow’s through his sunglasses.

“…. N-No.”

“Shame.” Sparrow kept Swift’s head up while he reached for the bowl. “Boss wants you to eat, _unfortunately_. I would _love_ for you to starve.” The bowl was placed under Swift’s chin, Sparrow’s smile a mockery of an actual, friendly smile. “Open up, beautiful. I don’t want to force you.”

Swift pursed his lips, his throat closing up. He shook his head, making his head throb and open scar burn. Sparrow’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with morbid glee under the dark glasses, before he let go of Swift’s hair to grab his jaw forcefully, trying to pry it open with one hand while the bowl of tainted food was brought closer to his lips.

Swift refused. Sparrow’s grin widened again before he let go of Swift’s jaw – the man had no warning before a finger pressed down on the open cut on his face. He let out a loud scream, mouth opening enough for Sparrow to pour the liquid in.

Swift choked, then gagged, stopping the scream in his throat and sputtering, trying to spit out whatever they were feeding him. He coughed harshly, the sores in his mouth agitated, but some of the liquid made its way down his throat, sating the dryness if only for a little bit.

“There we go, sweetheart, just swallow, and I’ll stop botherin’ your… rather hideous wound.” Sparrow gave a low chuckle when Swift finally swallowed. “It’s not the feedin’ I’m looking forward to, anyway… that’s it, love – if you just take this, it won’t hurt as much.” In a moment of courage, Swift spit into Sparrow’s face. The man reeled back, dropping the bowl and using his now free hand to wipe his face, mouth contorting into rage and disgust.

“Fuck you,” Swift rasped. “I don’t –” Swift doubled over when he was punched in the stomach, gasping and letting out a soft sob as he clutched his abdomen.

“You fucking _whore_.” Sparrow sneered. “I guess you _want_ it to hurt.” He leaned down, whispering into Swift’s ear. “Are you a _masochist_? Does this shit turn you on?”

“Please….” Swift whispered through tears – his entire body ached, his scar throbbed with sharp, burning pain, he just wanted everything to _end_. “D-Don’t….”

“The boss gave you t’me. Besides, sweetheart….” Sparrow got closer, his words no more than a soft breath – Swift had to strain to hear the next words. “You helped _her_ escape. She was the fuckin’ best, and you got her out. _And I don’t like that, Swift_.”

“Don’t you bring Altava into this.” Swift heaved when he was kicked in the stomach again, then let out another sharp scream when Sparrow messed with his open scar even more, pulling at the intact stitching.

“I don’t think you’re in the position to tell me what to do anymore. Watch what comes out of that filthy mouth of yours.”

“You motherfu –” Swift bit his tongue to keep from shouting again when he was rolled onto his back, arms pinned above his head. Sparrow loomed above him.

“I’m not even gonna wait for that damned drug to kick in anymore – I want you entirely lucid while I do this to you.” Swift felt a sharp pang of fear, eyes widening slightly.

“Sparrow – n-no –” It already hurt when he was under the drug; what the _hell_ would this feel like?

“You cannot talk to me like that.” Sparrow’s voice was sharp; he slapped Swift, making the latter bite his tongue harder, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth. He was not going to let this bastard see that he was afraid – he was _hurt_ , but he wasn’t _afraid_ – that’s what he told himself, at any rate. “Waiting for you to go under was a blessing for you – less of a hassle for me. But I can do this to you when you’re at you’re full strength – the only thing from stopping me from hurting you before _all this happened_ was your _position_. The boss doesn’t _care_ about you now; I doubt he ever did care about you! Look at what he did to that _bitch_ , he threw her to the dogs like they weren’t related at _all_.” Another slap – Swift couldn’t help but yell this time. Sparrow laughed, then paused for a moment, thinking. His eyes locked on the chains on the wall behind Swift. Another laugh, then Sparrow stood, not letting go of Swift’s wrists, instead dragging him against the harsh floor before he clicked the shackles into place.

Swift was finally beginning to be overtaken by panic, writhing and kicking his legs. Sparrow kicked him in the (probably broken) ribs before kneeling down – his grin had never been wider.

“This is much more fun to watch. I hope you enjoy this, _sweetheart_ ; I think this may be our last time together before the grand showdown with Layton and Sycamore.” Sparrow leaned down to his ear once more. “I’ll make sure you don’t forget who you belong to.”

——

* * *

——

Swift had gone unresponsive about halfway through the inevitable assault – it hurt much, much worse than when he was on the drug. Sparrow had left him chained to the wall afterwards; Swift was covered in sweat and vomit and blood – his breathing was shallow, weak, rattling and hoarse from his screams. The cut on his face had reopened; the last few stitches popped open – blood and pus trailed down his face like red, angry tears. It hurt to keep his eyes open – everything just _hurt_.

How long had he been sitting there? He didn’t care anymore – stars danced under his eyelids, he had stopped trembling at one point from the cold and pain.

He secretly hoped he was finally dying.

The door opened, and hurried footsteps made their way to him.

“You have three hours to make him look somewhat decent before we set off for Froenborg, Owl.”

“Keys,” Owl said in a hurried, panicked voice. “I need keys.” A soft jangle reached Swift’s ears before the cuffs were unlocked. “Swift, stay with me, dear…. Can I get someone to carry him?”

An exasperated sigh from Bronev before he called out, “Raven?”

“Y-Yeah, o’course, boss.” Swift didn’t even react when Raven scooped him up – one of the youngest members in Targent to date. He and Swift got along rather nicely, along with Owl and Altava. Raven was also one of the few other nurses at Targent that Owl fully trusted – he was currently being trained by her.

As he was being carried by one of his few true friends here, Swift found himself beginning to doze, senses going numb and cold.

“Miss Owl,” Raven started, voice cracking slightly. “Miss Owl, I think we’re losin’ ‘im –!”

“Can you move any faster?”

“Yeah – but I don’ wanna hurt –”

“Raven, we need to get him stabilized _right now_. Do you understand?”

“I-I – Yeah, ‘course.”

“Do you remember what I was teaching you?”

“‘Bout wha’?”

“The blood infusion. We’re going to have to give him one – can you get one ready?”

“Ah – yeah, yeah.” Swift was gently laid on a soft bed. “Wha’ about the cut on his face…? It’s infected, innit?”

“Yes. I’ll clean and stitch it while you get the blood into him.” A gentle hand was placed onto Swift’s forehead – the man jolted before giving a soft whimper, breathing rattling. “Swift, honey. I’m going to give you some morphine, okay? Is that alright?”

Swift’s eyes shot open at the mention of the drug – vision blurred and hazy. “N-No –” Owl shushed him gently.

“I don’t need to give it to you, but I want to to keep you from hurting, okay? Just enough to keep you awake, but dull the pain?”

“N-No – n-no drugs.”

“Swift, dear….”

“ _No_!” Swift shouted, then winced. “N-No –”

“Okay, dear, okay…. Sh-h-h…. I’m going to clean your cut, okay? It’s infected – we need to stitch it up again.” Swift exhaled, eyes closing.

“…No point.”

“Swift, dear –”

“I’ll just be hurt again.” Swift’s voice was a whisper, adrenaline and fear wearing off and leaving him exhausted as all hell. “No use.”

He was so exhausted that he didn’t react when the gentle pinch of a needle went into his arm. A moment of silence passed before Owl muttered something to Raven. Another soft pinch, and Swift’s mind began to haze over after a few minutes.

“Can you clean him up and check for major bruising while I work on the stitches?”

“Mhm.” Raven snipped away his shirt. “Why bruising?”

“It’s a sign of broken bones, more often than not.” Swift spoke, loopy from the painkiller.

“Check my ribs…?” There was a dull spike of pain when Owl began cleaning the major cut on his face, then another small spike when Owl began to stitch it up again.

“Your ribs, Swift?”

“…Yeah – kicked –” Small hands pressed on his side gently.

“How d’ya tell if a bone is broken, Miss Owl?”

“Swift has been having trouble breathing, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And is the area swollen?” A soft affirmation from Raven as gentle hands prodded his side. “Swift, does it hurt to breathe? Your chest tight?”

“M-hm….”

“How d’we take care ‘fit?”

“This isn’t something we can wrap up, unfortunately – can you get an ice pack?”

“Yeah.” Footsteps as Raven moved away.

“Swift, can you tell me about anything else that may have happened?” A gentle pause as Swift processed the question. “I can see the cuts on your neck – any other spots?”

“No cuts….,” Swift muttered. “Just bruises….”

“Where are they?” A jolt from Swift when Owl finished stitching up his face, moving and touching the cuts on his neck gently. Swift’s breathing hitched – his body was beginning to relax, getting warmer from the blood he was being given. Tears began to leak from his closed eyes.

“M-My hips….” He heard the soft gasp from Owl; Raven came back in, pressing a cold ice pack to Swift’s side. “My legs….”

“Raven, can you get some saline?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Wha’ happened, Owl? ‘Looks like ya’ve seen a ghost.”

There was a few soft mutterings, then Raven gave a soft gasp, as well. A gentle hand grasped Swift’s, squeezed it tightly, then footsteps moved away once more. Swift struggled to stay awake; he dozed off before Raven came back.

He had been so close, yet so far from death. It had cradled him in his arms for so long, whispering little comforting words, trying to convince him that he would feel so much better once he died.

He had been willing to go, and yet….

He couldn’t be mad at Owl, or Raven, for keeping him alive. He just hoped they’d keep him safe.


End file.
